


I loved you, I left you in Cape Town

by orphan_account



Category: Panic! at the Disco, Ryden - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4124170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjoy this shit Garbage Sin trash par deux</p>
            </blockquote>





	I loved you, I left you in Cape Town

We're in South Africa. Cape Town.

We're playing a show tonight but I don't want to. None of us want to. We're haggard, tired, exhausted, out of energy. We're drained.

We're smoking hundreds of dollars worth of weed a day just to exist around each other. The end is nigh. It's a hot death and it's nipping at our heels.

Brendon and Spencer are sitting across from Jon and I in this tiny restaurant inside of the hotel. Brendon's face is in his phone like it always is these days. He's texting her.

"Bren." It comes out as a bark but I don't mean it to.

His head snaps up and our eyes meet.

"What?"

"What are you ordering?" I can see the waitress coming our way but I still haven't decided. Maybe I'll just have what he's having because I'm a child incapable of making basic choices.

"Um." He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and sets his phone down on the table. He grabs up the menu and starts quickly scanning it.

The waitress gets here and pulls her pad and pen out.

"You guys ready?" She says cheerfully with a smile. She has an accent that's an amalgamation of people and places and cultures.

I don't need her smile right now. I don't need anyones smile. Why should I have to look at everyone else's smiles when I haven't been capable of smiling for months. When the only time I get to see the smile that matters most to me is when he's looking down at his fucking phone.

"Yeah. We're ready." Jon responds, but Brendon's still scanning the menu.

She keeps smiling and goes around the table, starting with Jon, going to Spencer, and then ending up on Brendon who's still looking back and forth between the menu and his phone.

"And for you?" Her voice is high and tittery. I'm annoyed.

"Uhh... Do you just... Have a cheeseburger or something like that?"

"We do! You want fries with that? Lettuce, tomato, onions, on it?" She starts writing on the pad without looking.

He sets the menu down and slides it toward her shrugging.

"Yeah just. Bring me the works."

"Can do! And for you?" She looks at me.

I look her up and down. She's pretty. I could probably fuck her if I wanted to. I could fuck her til I can't remember Brendon's name anymore. At least for the 5 minutes before I come. But then I'd ejaculate and he'd be back behind my eyelids again. She's not worth it.

"I'll have what he's having." I nod toward Brendon.

"Alright! I'll be back with your order in a bit." She shoves her pad and pen into her apron pockets and walks away. I watch her walk away and I make sure Brendon notices that that's exactly what I'm doing.

He glares at me. I can feel it. I shoot him a glare of my own but he looks down before we can catch eyes.

I stare at a portrait of some colorful flower on the wall behind Brendon's head. Try to distract myself from how angry and bitter I am. I'm angry because he won't sit next to me in restaurants anymore. I'm bitter because he sits next to Spencer. I'm angry that I can't fuck with him and drive him wild and palm his crotch under the table. I'm mad that we can't hold hands where no one can see. I'm furious that I'm not currently next to him with a hand stroking his thigh. I'm livid that he took away the safety and comfort of being in love under tables.

The air is so thick. I feel bad for Jon. I would feel almost bad for Spencer if he wasn't the one who started to steal away so much of my boy's time. Brendon's not fucking me on his down time anymore. He's in Spencer's hotel room doing harmless innocent things like playing cards or watching movies.

I'm so furious.

"This is the final show of our tour on this album and you're gonna be a bitch all day. Cool." Brendon scoffs. It's surprising that he's piping up. He's as frustrated as I am. It's cute.

My eyes fly down to his face.

"Why do you like drama, Brendon? Why do you enjoy starting shit when there's nothing to start? You're incredible." I keep my face stoic. I won't let him fucking get to me.

"Ryan." Spencer warns. His blue eyes are cold. He's done. He's been done for months.

Me too, buddy. Me too.

Rage is bubbling hot and heavy in my chest. I don't want Spencer treating me like a child, even if I want to act like one.

"Listen, I'm glad this is the final show we have for... quite a while. We could use a break. Desperately." Jon sighs heavily and leans back in his chair, scratching the ever-growing beard on his face.

"Yeah. I wanna get home and see Sarah." Brendon chimes in nonchalantly.

Oh no. He doesn't get to be nonchalant about this.

"Why do you fucking do that." My words come out like a demand.

"Do what?" Brendon's top lip curls in annoyance. Disgust. Hurt.

"Why do you talk about her when you know it's gonna fucking upset me?"

"That's hilarious." Is all he says. Very typical of him. He wants a brawl.

"Guys." Jon pipes in.

I ignore him. So does Brendon.

"You act like I'm cheating on you. There's nothing, Ryan. There's nothing to cheat on." His voice is very strong and still. I'm proud of him. My boy has developed a spine. Good on him.

"Brendon stop." Spencer starts. He's always on Brendon's side these days. But he can see when Brendon is picking at an open sore.

"I'm not sure if you guys should be doing this in public." Jon looks around warily. He's right. But that doesn't mean we won't.

"There's nothing? There's nothing but you're quite literally staring daggers at me when I check out a waitress."

"Yeah. You have experience with waitresses, don't you." God, if looks could kill.

Yeah. Yeah I do. I cheated on two different people with one waitress that I never saw again. Who cares? The only way I could've gone was down, so I did.

"Fuck you." I spit.

"You already have." He shoots back.

A chorus of stern "Brendon's!" and "Ryan's!" pop in sporadically around the table and in the midst of it I find myself yelling. Brendon and I are tossing insults back and forth at each other. Everything he says hurts. Everything he says is true.

"Babe!" I scream across the table at Brendon.

The table goes silent. Spencer stares at Jon, eyes wide. I stare at Brendon, chest heaving.

People around the restaurant look up and over at us. I don't think anyone knows who we are but I can't be sure.

'Babe.' It comes so naturally. It's stupid. I'm too used to it. I've gotta get unused to it, because he's not anymore. He's not my 'babe.' Not my 'baby.' Not my 'boy.'

I'm enraged.

"If you don't leave, I will." Brendon says flatly.

I don't move. I'm too stubborn.

So he gets up, and he leaves. Glasses and silverware clang, and he's gone.

Fuck.

"Jesus fucking christ, Ryan." Spencer puts his face in his hands, exasperated.

I know. I'm tiresome. I'm obnoxious. I'm over my shit, too.

But like I said before, I'm stubborn, so stubborn. I won't leave him alone. I won't let him cool down. I'll pick a fist fight if I fucking have to, because I'd rather feel his fist on my jaw than nothing at all.

I leave in the same clatter of glasses and silverware that Brendon did and make my way up to his room. I need to get my ass kicked or... Something. I need a release.

When I'm up on our floor, I pound on his door. God, I'm merciless.

"Fucking christ. Bren!" I yell at the solid white door. He can't get away from me this time. He's got to do something. Hit me. Something.

The door flies open and he's standing there, so torn open. I keep ripping him open. But I don't feel bad about it because he does the exact same thing to me.

"No, Ryan!" It's like he's pleading. His voice and face are the same shade of hurt.

"Hit me." I say. My voice is stone.

"Ryan, stop."

"Hit me!" I yell. Someone coming off the elevator looks down the hall at us. They look scared.

"You're making a fucking scene." Brendon reluctantly pulls me inside and slams the door shut. "Why do you have to do this? Why do you always have to do this? Seek help, Ryan. You need fucking help."

"I want you to hit me." I don't know what's possessing me. Sometimes I'm just like this. I can't stop it.

"I'm not fighting you."

"I didn't say 'fight' I said 'hit.' A fight entails that I'll be hitting back. But I won't. Hit me."

"No."

"Brendon."

"No!"

A tense silence lingers, my fists are clenched and his jaw is tight. We're both breathing heavy. I know where this is going and so does he.

He breaks.

"Fuck me..." He whispers, collapsing against me, our lips colliding.

It's messy. It's saliva and lips and stubble and noses and tongues. It's everything I've been missing in the months that he's been chasing Sarah. I hate this.

Everything starts moving at an excruciatingly quick pace. We're borderline hyperventilating, trying to remove our clothing as fast as possible, get into bed, get under the covers.

We've never been this unrefined. We've done seedy shit. Fucked in bathroom stalls using a bottle of lotion as lube, given each other blow jobs in dressing rooms that we didn't want or need, given each other quick hand jobs in the back seats of cars and buses. But we've never been this sickeningly desperate and pathetic.

He's whining when I get him below me and I find myself blowing him, moving between spreading his cheeks and attacking his hole with spit and lips and pressing my tongue and my kisses to his leaking cock.

Everything is so fast and primitive and clumsy but the only steady thing beating it's fists against the walls of my brain are the words "I love you."

I love him.

I love him.

I love him.

I love him and it's too fucking late. I had him but I couldn't see what I had. Couldn't get my act together for five fucking minutes to show him I was capable of changing, growing, loving. That I was capable of anything but fucking and fighting like a caged animal.

I've got my fingers in him now and I can feel tears inside of me, itching to escape, but they won't come out. There's no more room for tears anymore. There's no reason to cry over shit you've destroyed. Once you've burned a bridge, it's gone. And I don't have the energy or the time to rebuild it.

I'm going fast, so fucking fast, because I'm terrified he's going to change his mind. I'm terrified he's going to walk away.

So before he even has the chance to get used to my 2 fingers, I'm frantically trying to spit myself up and push into him. But he scrambles up onto his elbows and pushes me back, shaking his head fervently.

"No. No, you're gonna use a condom." His voice is husky and masculine and serious and I'm upset, so upset.

I don't want to use a fucking condom. I want to be inside of him unapologetically and feel every one of his ridges and curves, feel his tight wet heat around me. But if I expect to get anything from him, I have to go by his rules.

So I reach down for my jeans as quick as I can, fumbling to find the condom I always keep on hand in my wallet.

We don't have lube. We haven't done this in so long. In comparison to the every day that it used to be, a couple months is So Long. It's too long. It's hell. So I slick myself up with my saliva, and the lube that comes on the condom already helps. It helps, but an ass is different from a vagina. At least the rubber gives us a decent slide in comparison to going bareback with no lube. We've been there, and it's bad. But he likes the burn and the stretch. I know he does. He's always been a little cockslut whether he wants to admit it or not.

I start to push into him and he throws his head back, exposing the veins on his neck, so I suck and kiss the life out of those veins.

"Ryan... Ryan, god. Please." He's whimpering and saying my name like he's so wrecked because he is. God I love that sound. I will go to my deathbed loving and missing the sound of my name on his pink perfect lips.

"Bren..." I'm fucking him with renewed vigor and force because all I can think about is how I love him. I fucking love him and it's cruel that I do. I'm an idiot, a fool. I've done so many stupid things in my life but Brendon Urie is by far the stupidest thing I've ever done.

I need to say it. I need to get it out. I've never said it and meant it. I've never let him know I love him, really love him. I've made passing "love you, man" kind of comments but I have never said the words "I Love You." And never would I say it to him in the throes of passion. I've never felt this much regret or hurt in my entire life.

"I love you." I breathe out, attaching my lips to his, not giving him the chance to respond and hurt me.

"Baby, I love you." My chest is constricting. I can't fuck like this, but I do anyway. "I love you so much, Brendon."

He sounds like he's stuttering cries, but there are no tears in his eyes, no signs of the sobs I'm looking for. I can't tell if he's just doing this for show.

"I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you." My voice is distressed and I'm fucking the words into him, my breathing shaky and my thrusts erratic. I'm burying my love deep inside of him in the only way I know how: with sex. I've never been good at love, but I'm good at fucking. I'll fuck him until he can't tell the difference.

He's not saying it back.

"Brendon, I love you." I kiss him, wet and sloppy and hot and he lets me. He's willing and cooperative, but he's not the most responsive that he's ever been. And it hits me.

He's just letting me get this out of my system.

My throat closes and I have to bite my lip hard enough to draw blood in order to keep from choking out a sob over him. The tears want to come out with the realization that this isn't what it is for me for him. For me this is a confession, a plea. For him this is a coffin being lowered six feet into the earth.

He's holding onto the back of my neck, his hands firm and strong and his fingers rough and calloused from years of fucking and fighting and playing songs that I wrote for him in front of thousands of people. I press my sweaty forehead against his and we close our eyes and quicken the pace even more.

He's not touching himself. He's not worried about his own orgasm at all. He just wants this to be over with, for me to come and be done so we can move on and never see each other again. So I decide to slow down because I don't want to come. I want to be inside of him forever. I want to claim him and mark him and have him by my side til the end of time but I fucked up like I always do. I thought I was okay with losing him but I'm not. I never was. I was just trying to fake it til I made it but I never did.

I tried to pretend like all those other girls meant more than he did, like Jac meant more, like Keltie meant more, like that fucking waitress and my countless boy toys meant more. But they could never compare. Their eyes could never compare to his puppy-dog brown ones. Their lips could never compare to his full, pink ones that were always getting in the fucking way. Their smiles could never compare to his huge, open-mouthed square-toothed smiles that could melt the hearts of even his enemies. They didn't have his back dimples, his smooth but masculine taut chest, his soft dark hair, his not-big-enough-but-fuck-i-don't-care cock that was made up for in ass size, his deep throaty laughs and his high pitched ones. They didn't have his voice or his sighs and they didn't snore like he does because he broke his nose when he was a kid and never got it fixed. They didn't have his dumb eyebrow scar that even he can't remember where it came from. They didn't embellish stories and make them grandiose for comedic or dramatic effect like he does. They didn't say 'I love you' like he did.

But now even he doesn't say 'I love you' like he did.

And I'm crumbling. Breaking apart above him. Trying not to come but I can't hold it back anymore. I'm going to have to finish this at some point and we're going to have to go our separate ways and I'm going to have to live with myself, my stupid fucking self, knowing that I broke this poor boys heart. I've hardened him. I've made this angel, who is so small and gentle inside, into someone who's afraid to love and give himself to others. I've broken him. I want to die.

I was always right about one thing: I don't fucking deserve him.

His hair is wet from sweat and I grab a fistful of it and tug his head back, exposing his neck and watching his eyelids crush together as I start to fuck that spot in him that drives him wild. His mouth is hanging open lazily and small moans are escaping his reddened lips with every brutal thrust. I can tell he's not the least bit worried about coming, but he's not trying to not come either.

Stupid boy. You know nobody will ever make you feel the way I make you feel. Why can't you just let me have you? Why did I have to ruin you like I ruin everything else.

And finally, there's no more clenching and holding I can do. I'm coming, spilling into the condom he made me wear again after those months long ago of him pleading with his eyes and grabbing the unopened condoms out of my fingers, tossing them across the room like a petulant child. As if letting me fuck him bareback would get me to open my eyes. As if the skin to skin contact and the danger and irresponsibility would get me to see, he's giving himself to me. His whole heart, soul, and body. But I wouldn't take his heart and soul. I just wanted his body. And now he's taking everything back.

Our skin is smacking together wetly with perspiration, his ass is raw and rose colored from the merciless fucking. I'm softening up inside of him but he keeps his thighs clenched around my midsection, holding onto something but I'm not sure what as he jerks himself off quickly. I hover over him, taking deep breaths and letting the heat from my mouth wash over his face. I start kissing his slick forehead and temples and nose and slightly parted lips, just trying to take whatever I can get. Whatever he's willing to give me.

Brendon starts coming with a buck of his hips and I'm still inside him, fully soft by now. But I don't want to pull out. I don't want to let him go. I can't let him go.

I'm still placing soft kisses all over his face. I can't stop.

He reaches his hands up and cards his fingers through my messy curls, pulling my lips away from the rest of his face and down to his lips. He lets me take him in. Lets me put the way his tongue feels and the way his skin tastes away in the very back of my mind, in a place where I won't lose it but I won't have to see it every day either. In a place where it's safe.

We stay like that, lips locked together like slick puzzle pieces for what feels like a century. But it's just a minute. And a minute isn't nearly long enough.

I pull out reluctantly and groan. We're both sensitive, it almost stings and he's suffering from the loss of my size and heat.

I look down between us while I'm pulling out and watch his pink hole close around nothing. I try to remember what it looked like when my seed would roll out of him and onto the bed. Try to remember what it looked like when I was able to claim him as mine with my DNA.

I can't.

Brendon swallows and sits up on his elbows, hair looking beautiful and messy and screaming nothing but 'sex.' I sit back on my heels and slip the condom off of myself, tying it off and tossing it into the waste bin. We look at each other for a long while. Just breathing.

"I'm sorry." He says softly.

God it hurts when his voice is gentle like that.

"I love you." I say one last time. Maybe he'll say it back. Maybe pigs will fly.

"I loved you, too."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

He's sad. His face, his voice. So fucking sad. I never wanted to be his reason to cry or frown. But I let myself get to a place where I didn't care about anyone but myself. Anything but the drugs I was doing and the drinks I was throwing back and the orgasms I was having. I'm so ashamed.

I've never been more ashamed.

"I can't change your mind." I say. It's a statement. Not a question.

"No. No you can't." He's shimmying to sit back against the headboard now. There's a calmness in his face that's never been there before.

This is closure.

"You love her." It's another statement. I'm not asking questions. I'm just confirming things I already know. This is my closure.

"Yes. Yes I do."

Another beat of sickening silence.

"I don't think... I don't think I should be in the band anymore." I let myself say it.

"You want the band to break up?" There's so much calmness in his words. It's almost eerie.

"No... No, I want you to have it. You can have it. It's the least I can do. I know how much you love this band."

God. It's killing me to give him my life's work. But for all I've done to him, this is the least I can offer him. My apology is letting him have everything. Letting him have the most important piece of me that I created. That we created together.

He wiggles his jaw like he always does when he's nervous, when his bones are cracking and locking up and he needs a way to release the tension.

"Okay... Okay. Yeah. Okay." He shakes his head vigorously, letting me know, yeah, he's got this. The band is in good hands.

I know it is. I know it will be.

"I guess... I should go." I say slowly. He nods. Yeah, I should really go.

I dress myself slowly. Take my time. There's no rush. There's no reason to rush toward the finish line when there are no winners in this race. We all lose.

He gets up too, pulls on some boxers. He has the courtesy to walk me to the door that's five feet away.

"I'll be seeing you?" I ask tentatively as I reach for the door handle.

"After we get home?" He crosses his arms over his chest. He's too fucking calm for this.

"Yeah. Will we be seeing each other when we get back to L.A." There's no question mark at the end of my sentence.

"We'll see, Ryan."

God. Don't use my name like that. He sounds like a stern parent discussing their child's punishment. This is the worst punishment I could ever receive.

"Okay. Yeah, cool."

I go to push on the handle but I'm being pulled back and away from the door by my elbow. He pulls me into one last kiss. It's agonizingly slow and after all of this bullshit, excruciatingly romantic.

He pulls away not even a centimeter from my lips and pulls his own into a thin line.

A pause.

His eyes find mine.

"Baby, please take care of yourself. If that's the last thing you do. If that's all I can ask you to do for me. Please. Please keep yourself safe. Please let yourself be happy."

I nod slowly but my chest is tightening. I'm making him a promise I can't keep. I'm already giving him everything I hold dear. Everything I've ever loved, pieces of my soul, pieces of my broken heart. I can't keep this promise but I'll make him think that I will. I don't want him to worry. Don't want to hurt him anymore. Don't want to do anymore damage.

His thumb brushes over my cheekbone and I sigh. Let him believe I'll be fine.

And without another word, I go.

I'm not just closing a chapter of my life. I'm closing a whole novel in the series. A whole volume. He took up so much of my existence, so much of my story.

He will start a new series. Write a new book with new stories, new characters and places and smiles and laughs. I will keep writing in the same series. I will keep remembering him and dwelling on him, on these characters, his smiles, his laughs.

Brendon Urie is not the type of stain you can wash out of your sheets.


End file.
